


wet cement

by Eyesore



Category: Manhunt (Video Games)
Genre: Necrophilia, Psychosis, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3113669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyesore/pseuds/Eyesore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They like their routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wet cement

Two psychopaths walk into a yard.

Darkwoods Penitentiary sounds like home, and their boots crunch brittle grass and scrape over gravel as they enter the night. First one's clad in overalls and plaid, and the second one's got something sheer and sexy on. Black lace, black skirt, black stockings, bare feet. Both of them wear bright yellow masks of some hard plastic, sloppily cut-into and baring cartoon smiley-faces. But one of them is loaded, this the first one knows. He comes from wealth and hosts wild parties and has stories for miles. Plainclothes in plaid looks him over, seeing dark areolas pressed against the transparent shadow of his fancy top, seeing the bristle of thick leg-hair scratching into a tangle against his tight, tight stockings.

Rich guy smells like stale cigarettes. He knows 'cause momma used to smoke and so did the guards before they killed them all. If he's got so much money then why's he spending it on cheap tobacco?

"I have something amusing for you, my dear." The voice of a real socialite. Dog-ears perk up and he'd wag a dog-tail if he had one. This guy's popular and important but he always takes the time to mingle with the family pooch. Generous. "The Forsythes were fishing for marlin in the Atlantic. You know them, always out to make something extinct!" He talks fast but tempered, almost graceful, in the way the inner-city folk do. "So they're reeling in a big one and it's putting up a fight. You know how it gets. Spend all day on your yacht only to be outsmarted by a goddamn _fish_ of all things. So he's yanking it forward and it jumps..." His uncultured friend wonders what a marlin is. At some point the story ends. It floats away, _gone to the clockwork crows_ , like some other maniac shouts about.

First one barks laughter. Dumb dog. Special dog. The hound that sucks head-milk and sees ghosts. Barking, barking laughter.

It swirls a drain. It's wound up. It howls and it snaps at the sky, saliva arcing, glittering to the stars of a god that doesn't see the chain around the neck. Dog legs, dog legs, dog legs.

He can't take it anymore, his leather hands are clutching his scalp as he bends at the knees and goes standing-fetal. His muscles flex thick scars apart. All his friends are brown and white. Dead mealworms flecked over bulging biceps, and oh, what a body he has that he's ruined.

Second one stops, regards his consort for a second before deciding the power drill in his left hand is more entertaining, and grinds it inches from his own eye. "It's _really_ too much." Chorizo salad, formaldehyde fish eggs, boiled-alive lobster dinners and the things he's never had. Red carpet. Banquet halls. Useless, glistening chandeliers. Gallons of fizzy alcohol in fragile, skinny glasses. Tiny see-through women in his calloused palms, between his dirt-edged nails. A sea of shining white faces, smiling. _Excess_. He stops his drill, lets it go to his side before he scruffs the mutt and yanks it upward. "Come on, you're embarrassing me in front of all these people!"

Dog-man's dog-legs twitch back to life and he pushes himself up, the anticipation of a sharp slap to his ass tantalizing and terrifying all in the same. Sometimes he's punished because the party host is violent. He'll spank him like he's a naughty kid and tell him to shape up his act and it gets the sick little fuck excited. Sometimes he gets a boot pressed against his ugly face and rubbed over his mouth. Sometimes it's the sole of a foot and he licks sour, suckles grit off toes and makes someone giggle 'cause they're ticklish, and - he touches himself while he does it. The other guys think it's a riot. It's good fun, and his head snaps to that-- that _fucking elitist bitch_ strutting around next to him. "-- No, no, I think you're in cahoots with Mr. Witchetty man!" A suspicious squint through the eyeholes. His high-class friend stares at him, then heaves a dramatic sigh. There's no arguing with a ghost whisperer. "I'm sorry," the host consoles his disturbed guests, a smile spreading under his own mask. "You'll have to forgive him. He's off his medication."

Searing rage spits into the dog-man's eyes, and he explodes, punching a wall and spraining his wrist. It doesn't hurt. Doesn't hurt. All he feels is anger. "You can't talk! Fuckin' bastard! Demon-seed, twistin' around all wriggly and starving." That's it, he knows it, Rich Guy must be another fucking cultist out to taunt him.

The host glances over his shoulder, not listening, indifferent. He's busy chatting up the Addingtons. Frustrated, the dog breaks away, stomping across the yard and back to the cellblock. The host watches for a second, shrugging, "Oh, well. Maybe someday you'll get a taste of the high life, darling." And then he turns his back again.

Kicked-dog isn't watching, he's fuming. He's treading a furious path down the hallway. There's Drug Slut over thataway, poking at his dark skin with something sharp. That's what it says on him. On his chest. DRUG SLUT. See, the wonder-dog can read. Drug Slut stumbles then falls limp, truly helpless, his mohawked head cracking against the linoleum. No resistance as he oozes onto the floor like a scribbled-on puddle. The dog keeps going.

"-- Come to my party instead! Two-ninety-nine, red snapper..." And it's the copycat, a pot leaf etched into his forearm, lush and green against his mottled skin. Dog-man stops and sniffs the air. Smells like a litter box. He keeps walking, seeing the copycat get up from his cross-legged position and tromping to him. Behind him he hears: "You've got a crispy petal. Let me pluck it off." The copycat's fingertips touch at the nape of his neck and make his skin prickle in that delicious way he's able to make it, and the dog stops. Feels hands spreading at his shoulders, giving them a squeeze, the hard plastic of his stupid chipped mask pressing into the back of his shaved head. 

There's no such thing as foreplay, no concept when the mimic reaches around for his clothed cock and grabs at it, impatient and hungry. They operate on impulses. No rules, nothing reigns anymore but their own wants, and boys will be boys. The dog is standing still when his friend slinks around to his front, crouches in front of him and nuzzles at his groin. The motion spores the deep, acrid stench of a man who's gone weeks without a shower rising up, base and obscene. The dog detaches, head tilting back to look at the ceiling. Copycat sends shivers all over but he can't focus, and tension floods his limbs, hot-gluing them in place. They're both getting hard but only one is animate, giving reaction to feed off of, and the pup just isn't doing his part. He's boring today.

Kitty-cat says, "Maybe you can't hear me with all that juice sloshing around in your brain." 

Suddenly uninterested, he stands up and wobbles off down the hall, toeing an invisible railing or a ledge or some other inch-wide walkway that nobody else can see. "Oranges and lemons, say the bells of Saint Clemens..." Muttering off and around a corner before the dog can walk again, pushing past heavy metal doors and breaking into cold night air again. A dark lump in the shadow of a malnourished tree hits his peripheral.

Dead body. 

His lower gut throbs and his balls get the swimmies, the squirmy-wormies that burrow into his cock and make it stiffen again. He jitters to the corpse, pleased that nobody else found it first. Drops to his knees like a priest and they sink into soft, distended soil, wetting the fraying jean material. Dog-man turns the body over so it's prone and facing the blackness above, then he mounts it.

" _There's_ a good boy, _there's_ a good boy, _there's_ a good boy--" He speaks as if it's dog-kin. Voice wavering like he's taming a boar, trying to convince it and himself that it's safe. Calm. He worries that someone else will come out and want to share. Maybe he wants the copycat to come marching back out, looking for him. Craving him. Maybe the dog would share with him. Anxiety-grinding into a vague proximity of the crotch, his covetous hands scrape over bloated skin and a bumpy road of gore. He doesn't take his gloves off. He's lonely. 

Lonely. Lonely. Lonely. Why didn't he embrace that hot sliver of love when he had it? Bad dog.

Cum soaks through his pants within seconds and re-wets old crust and buildup around his unwashed tip, and he shudders, he whimpers. Spasms claw up his spine as he sinks into his own filth, the smell of decomposition and body odor reaching his nostrils. The smell of a lover. "Sweet baby," he whispers. It's strained.

Lonely. Lonely. Lonely. Bad dog.

The mutt sleeps alone in a corner after eating his bullied thoughts on a cot blood-stained and pissed-on. He pushes his mask off and remembers what fresh air feels like going in his worthless lungs, up and down his wasted throat. He's a maggot-mind and it's the witchetty man's fault, cursing him and dancing beyond reach and beckoning him out of open windows. Fat white grubs swarm his brain before he slips into slumber, cocooning just like the larvae he always was. Maybe in the morning, he'll have his metamorphosis. He'll split his casing and walk on real legs and the sun will blind him. No more crawling. No more crawling.

No more crawling.

No more crawling.

No more crawling.

No more crawling.

No more crawling

No more crawling

No more 

no more


End file.
